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Charlie chokes on his champagne.
I stop breathing.
Beckett’s brows rise at Joana. He looks her up and down. “I’d say the same for you, but you seem like the kind of girl who loves getting pounded from behind.”
She snorts. “Classy.”
What the fuck am I watching?
He raises his glass. “Toujours.” Always.
She lifts the edge of her dress, so she can jog again. “With that”—she looks to me—“I’m going to go find my brother.”
“Good idea,” I agree.
I probably shouldn’t be a chaperone at a high school dance ever. Oscar is going to flip. I turn to Beckett. “Don’t go there again,” I say. “All of SFO have warned you. So now I’m warning you.”
“She instigated that one.” Beckett grabs a pastry off a server’s tray, a smile toying at his lips. “Plus, she basically called me a slut.”
Charlie says something in quick French to Beckett, and my walkie crackles, “Ethan for Jack.”
I hit the button. “What’s up?”
“We need you on Jane in the clubhouse.”
Come on.
I hesitate to comply and leave my subject. But I say, “On it.” And then a large crash echoes from up the green. Near hole three.
Oscar.
Clubhouse or Oscar?
We Are Calloway or my boyfriend? He has a lot of people on his side, a lot of bodyguards there to help whatever just happened, but the crash was loud. Fear and worry propel me in his direction.
I take off running to hole three. With adrenaline pumping, the Steadicam suddenly feels lighter than air.
29
OSCAR OLIVEIRA
“Oscar to Security, I need a medic. I need a medic.” I repeat twice and add my location so everyone knows, despite my controlled voice, that shit is bad.
A golf cart just capsized and rolled.
My vigilant ass is set on hot coals. I’m running with all I have over to the slope that the golf cart just tumbled down. Twinkle lights barely illuminate the area. It’s dim, and I’m only nearest the crash-site having just dealt with paparazzi.
A couple Alpha guards are still restraining cameramen who snuck in the event.
“Is anyone hurt?!” I yell, racing in a quick descent to the flipped cart. “Luna?! Tom?! Eliot!?” I saw all three on the golf cart before they crashed.
Just what I never wanted to see happen again. I don’t care if it’s in fucking golf-cart-sized form. I never wanted to come up on another crash.
That was one of the worst days of my life.
And I’d bet a solid grand most in Alpha, Epsilon, and Omega would say the same.
An extreme amount of adrenaline keeps me focused as I squat down to the cart. “Can you hear me?!” Motherfuck, someone answer me. I need to lift the golf cart off them in case they’re being crushed.
“Uh…” Tom suddenly rolls woozily out from underneath the frame. Grass stains his white shirt, and a trickle of blood runs from a forehead cut.
“Eliot! Luna!” I call out.
“I’m pinned,” Eliot grunts.
“Ow, ow,” Luna winces.
It’s hard to see them in the dark.
Quickly, I widen my stance and grip the golf cart. Quinn appears at my side before I lift. He’s out of breath like he jogged over, and he grabs the other end.
“One, two, three,” I count, and we heave the golf cart up together. We hold it steady.
Eliot elbow-crawls out, but not before ensuring Luna can follow. She pushes herself with her legs, cradling her arm against her glittery jumpsuit.
My muscles burn while I keep a firm grip.
Eliot looks okay, but Luna’s bone is one-hundred-percent fucked. Radius, ulna—her forearm is painfully bent. Once they’re clear of the golf cart, my baby bro and I right it on its wheels.
“Luna!” Maximoff is running towards his little sister in a full-on sprint down the slope. The Hale prince is out-running Farrow, who’s a few feet behind, a med bag strapped to his shoulder. Ripley’s not with them, so I assume someone in Maximoff’s family must be holding the baby.
“Her arm, Redford.”
His focused eyes ping to me as he passes by, a small, serious acknowledgement that this was too close to what we both experienced together. Thank God it’s not nearly as bad.
While Farrow does a medical assessment and Maximoff checks on his family, I do a quick sweep of our surroundings. My pulse still at a peak.
Onlookers exist, watching from the clubhouse’s deck, but not many guests are around Hole 3. Besides paparazzi, it’s been vacant since the non-alcoholic bar is posted here.
Maximoff’s concern is replaced quickly by anger. “What the fuck?” he growls at them. “Who was driving? Why were you doing donuts?”
Did not see the troublemakers doing donuts.
Comms blow up in my ear. Epsilon and Omega. I pick apart Akara’s voice. “Akara to Quinn, did you see Luna, Tom, and Eliot steal a golf cart and a case of champagne earlier?”
Quinn isn’t responding.
“Hey.” I nudge his arm. “Akara just radioed you, little bro.”
Quinn rolls his eyes at me, then clicks his mic. “Yeah.”
